


Don't Move

by Ellen Smithee (ellensmithee)



Series: The Dos and Don'ts of Dealing with Originals [2]
Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Sexualized Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-16
Packaged: 2017-11-21 07:04:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellensmithee/pseuds/Ellen%20Smithee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being still has its rewards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Move

**Author's Note:**

> If this fic is familiar, it was originally published as "Not Sorry Enough," Chapter 2 of the [Bite-sized and bleeding](http://archiveofourown.org/works/361560) drabblethon with PleaseBeKidding and Saltzatore.

Damon's been here before, in this chair, or one very like it. His hands and feet are bound to the arms and legs of the chair with vervain-soaked ropes, and there are wooden spikes again—only this time they're in his chest, four of them, one on each side. He draws in a deep breath, wincing at the hollow rattle. At least one of his lungs is punctured, and maybe his spleen. As his eyes grow accustomed to the dim light, he realizes he's in the dining room of Klaus's mansion. His powers are weak from the loss of blood and vervain, but they're still strong enough for him to sense that he's not alone. He tenses as the instinct to run, to escape, kicks in, but a familiar voice stays him.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. If you move even a fraction of an inch, in any direction, one of the stakes will puncture your heart."

Damon follows the direction of the voice to find Elijah crouched down by the fire, thrusting a poker into the embers. He clenches his fists to keep from moving as he imagines what Elijah is going to do with it. Damon forces himself to breathe evenly through his nostrils, determined not to show his fear. 

"I told you not to go against my orders for our little 'operation,' Damon. I told you I'd make you sorry." Elijah's manner seems to suggest a pleasant afternoon's tea, not the evening of torture he seems to have planned. "But once again, you wouldn't listen to me. You almost ruined my plan."

"Okay, then, I _am_ sorry," Damon says, his tone as light as he can make it. The words are like sawdust in his mouth, dry and suffocating— _Damon Salvatore does_ not _apologize, ever—_ andhe forces himself to smile despite the pain radiating from the stakes. "I'll never do it again, promise. You can let me go now."

Elijah just shakes his head. "That was too easy," he said. "Too fast. Too glib. You didn't mean it, Damon. You are not sorry enough."

Damon tenses again as Elijah rises, bracing himself for the inevitable sear of hot metal in his flesh, only to relax again when Elijah merely puts the poker back in its stand. But then Elijah turns, and the look on his face makes Damon's stomach churn.

All false bravado, the smile still in place, Damon says, "You can let me go now," as Elijah approaches. Damon's nails are digging into his palms, so hard they are growing slick from blood. "I get the point."

Elijah reaches the chair then, and he puts his hands over the ropes, pressing them into Damon's wrists as he puts his weight on them. Damon grimaces at the white hot burn of the vervain on his skin and only just manages not to cry out. Elijah leans forward until his face is just inches from Damon's.

"I don't think you do," he says. "I think a little demonstration is in order. You need to prove that you are able to do as I say, when I say it."

Damon's eyes narrows. "Yeah, well, see? That's the problem right there. I don't take orders from anyone. Not even you." _Especially not you._ "Nothing personal."

Despite his cocky grin, Damon flinches when Elijah raises his hand, expecting the other man to strike him, but instead Elijah cups Damon's cheek. Elijah's lips twitch as he observes Damon's discomfort.

"Maybe it's about time you learn then," Elijah says, running his thumb over Damon's cheekbone. The gesture is almost tender, but before Damon can wonder about it, Elijah withdraws his hand.

Despite Elijah's warning, Damon coughs, forcing blood out of his lungs, and the bitter, metallic taste grounds him, the wounds from the stakes receding to a dull pain. Elijah leans forward again, his tongue darting out to gather the drops of blood clinging to Damon's lips, and Damon lets out an involuntary moan. His head follows as Elijah pulls away, but Elijah stops him, laying his hand on the back of Damon's neck.

"I said, 'Don't move.' This is important, Damon."

Damon fights his rising annoyance—as if the stakes don't already fucking remind him that he could _die_ at any second. "Fine," he hisses through clenched teeth and there's that amused look again, just a faint crinkling around Elijah's eyes. Then Elijah's hand is on Damon's belt buckle and _oh fuck_.

Damon panics as he realizes Elijah's intent and he starts to pull away, freezing when one of the stakes shifts. He closes his eyes and breathes evenly again, forcing himself to calm down. In the meantime, Elijah's hand is already undoing Damon's fly, his knuckles pressing against Damon's cock with each button his deft fingers flick open. He chuckles softly when he finds Damon's prick already hard and leaking precome.

"You really are a little slut, aren't you, Damon?" he says, more of a statement than a question.

"Fuck you," Damon snarls, but then Elijah is stroking him and it takes all of Damon's concentration not to just _go_ with it.

"Oh, I'm not the one getting fucked here."

The dirty word seems even dirtier in Elijah's cultured voice, and that makes Damon even harder. Elijah's hand is on his cock, his touch, now soft, now firm, his speed, now fast, now slow, is _just right_. If Damon could think more clearly, he'd wonder how Elijah knows how to touch him _just the way he needs it_ , but he has other things to worry about right now, like how to stay _fucking motionless_ during what he's certain is the best handjob of his life. The heady of mix of pleasure and pain is almost impossible to bear, but just as he's right on the edge, Elijah stops.

"You… fucking bastard!" Damon stares at Elijah in disbelief through bleary eyes. "What the—"

"Don't come until I say you can."

Damon digs his teeth into his lower lip, just forming an 'f' sound, when he catches Elijah's eye. Damon snarls, but closes his eyes. Elijah's hand is still on the back of his neck, steadying him, and Damon focuses on its weight, the gentle rubbing of Elijah's thumb over his nape, and it calms him.

And then Elijah's touching him again, and it's _perfect._ He's not sure how much longer he can hold out, but he isn't going to let Elijah best him again, not tonight. Whatever Elijah can dish out, Damon Salvatore can take.

Suddenly, Elijah stops, his hand squeezing Damon's cock just so.

"Come now, Damon."

Before Damon's even conscious of it, he's spilling into Elijah's hand, sobbing in relief as the orgasm shakes his body.

"Very good," Elijah murmurs, holding Damon, keeping him safe from the stakes until Damon is spent.

Finally, Elijah wipes his hand off on Damon's pants legs and then straightens up. Damon hears a series of clicks and then the stakes are moving, gliding out of his torso. He sags in relief, barely cognizant as Elijah cuts the ropes and presses a bag of blood into Damon's hand. Then Elijah turns and strides away, looking back only when he reaches the doorway.

"You can let yourself out," he says and then he's gone.

Damon tries to rise from the chair, but his legs give out, and he falls back, his eyes falling closed as he suckles on the bag. Elijah was right. Damon is totally fucked.


End file.
